


each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor

by StopIWantToTalkAboutCheese



Series: inspired by wandavision [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, WandaVision (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Character Study, F/M, Hurt Wanda Maximoff, I make it my solemn duty to love the underappreciated mcu characters, Introspection, Kid Wanda Maximoff, POV Wanda Maximoff, Peter Parker cameo - Freeform, Pietro still gets a starring role don't worry, Pietro: You didn't see that coming?, Teen Wanda Maximoff, Wanda Maximoff & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug, Wanda Maximoff Protection Squad, Wanda Maximoff deserved better, Wanda: yOU diDN't SeE thaT cOMinG?, Wandavision reignited my love for this pure-and-slightly-bloodthirsty bean, Your Honor I Love Her, in light of ep 5 I want to clarify that I wrote this BEFORE it was confirmed Wanda was born in 1989!, this is wanda's fic though, will somebody please hug her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:46:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29005512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StopIWantToTalkAboutCheese/pseuds/StopIWantToTalkAboutCheese
Summary: Wanda Maximoff, from birth to death to rebirth, and everything that happened in between.
Relationships: Pietro Maximoff & Wanda Maximoff, Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Series: inspired by wandavision [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2200608
Comments: 12
Kudos: 67





	each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a line from Edgar Allen Poe's _The Raven,_ and I totally picked it on purpose. It just fit so well! A poem about a person who goes insane after the death of their lover– how could I resist?
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :)

Most people remember meeting their best friends.

Wanda does not.

Pietro was just… there. Always.

(Until he wasn’t.)

As a child, Wanda remembers being safe, and warm, and happy. She remembers Sokovian lullabies and learning English from the programs on their tiny television and growing up in a household that was poor, but loving.

For sixteen years, she lives as a _we,_ as a _they,_ as an _us._ But of those sixteen years, it is the first ten that she treasures the most.

Her first ten years were the best of her life.

* * *

At ten, Wanda isn’t too aware of the political situation in her country. She knows her family is poor. She knows her parents are angry about it. She knows America is involved. That’s about it.

The roaring of airplanes and whistles of near-miss missiles overhead make up her daily life. Every day at school, they have bomb drills. 

She makes the mistake of telling her mother about the drills one afternoon, and her mother’s fury sustains itself until dinnertime.

“Hmph,” her mother sniffs over dinner as the television plays a tinny-sounding commercial for Stark Industries, and her anger has mostly abated to normal, barely-overflowing, simmering rage levels. “Honestly, you’d think the Americans just enjoy killing people. Like it’s a _game_ to them.”

“It’s not a game,” her father says, more mildly. “They just have too much power and we’ve been caught in the crossfire.” His eyes are shadowed, though. 

Wanda is only ten years old, but even she hears the whispers between the neighbors of German immigrants and Judaism and concentration camps, and she knows that her father knows a thing or two about being _caught in the crossfire._

“Well, if they use their power like this, they shouldn’t have it,” her mother says, slamming her fist on the table. “Once you get someone killed because of _your power,_ you don’t deserve it anymore. These are _lives_ we’re talking abou–”

There is a bright white light, a sharp whistle, and a sound like thunder.

At first, Wanda isn’t sure what happened.

One minute, her mother was there, the next, she wasn’t.

Pietro has always been faster than her, though.

He launches himself across the table, grabs Wanda by the waist, and bundles them both beneath the bed in the corner just as the second missile hits.

Wanda feels her body hit the ground, but it’s removed. Distant. She blinks at the pile of bricks across from her. Wasn’t there supposed to be a wall over there? And where had all the blood come from? Where was their mother? 

Pietro’s arm tightens around her waist. 

“Dad! Mom!” he says, and then, “Mama!”

Pietro hasn’t called their mother that since they were six years old. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks, but it’s fuzzy. Everything is blurry. There is something wet on her cheek. Wanda brushes two fingertips against it. One comes away wet. The other comes away bloody.

Is she crying? Crying, and bleeding at the same time? Why?

For the first time, she notices the other missile. The one that hit just before Pietro knocked them both underneath the bed.

“Mama!” Pietro cries. “Mama!”

And there, on the missile, clear as day, is one word.

_“Mama!”_

_STARK._

* * *

For two days, they stay under the bed, staring at the missile.

But by the third day, they are so hungry that they risk movement.

There is no food left in the apartment– anything edible was consumed by the missile.

They leave immediately after that realization. Wanda doesn’t remember seeing the bodies, but she knows they must still be there. She wonders if she’s blocked it out, if it is just too horrible to remember.

She does remember pausing at the door, and staring out into the hall.

“We’re not supposed to go to the grocery store without Mom,” she mumbles, and Pietro grips her hand tightly.

“It’ll be okay,” he says. “We’ll find someone who can help us.”

“Like who?” she asks.

“Like…” Pietro hesitates, and she knows she’s got him. They had no other family. Any friends their family had would have died or been injured in the blast. And it’s been two days.

There is no help.

They are on their own.

They huddle together in the alleyway behind their block of apartments, and Wanda can see that her brother’s face is blank and terrified. She’s sure hers looks much the same.

“Hey,” a voice says, and Wanda looks up to see a black-haired boy gnawing on an apple. He’s offering the pair of them a blackened banana, which Wanda snatches eagerly. Despite its color, the skin is unbroken and she bites into it eagerly, offering the rest to Pietro, who takes it.

“Thank you,” Wanda says.

The boy shrugs. “Had an extra.” He’s looking them up and down with a critical eye. “Missile?”

Wanda swallows. She stares at the ground. “Yeah.”

“Lots’a people got hit with that,” the boy says. “Guess you’re lucky.”

Wanda doesn’t reply. Neither does Pietro.

“You guys got anyone else?”

“No,” Wanda says shortly. Suddenly, she wants nothing more than to get away from this boy. She stands, dragging Pietro up with her. “Thanks for the food.”

“How about you?” Pietro asks suddenly. “Family, friends?”

“Nah,” the boy says. “T’ guy got everyone.” He takes a large bite of his apple. “Not the missile. Mine were murdered. I ran.”

“Sorry,” Wanda says, and Pietro mumbles an echo, because that’s what her mother taught her to say to people who have lost someone.

“Nah, I’m gonna pay ’im back,” the boy says fiercely.

“What do you mean?” Pietro asks warily, and the boy grins at him.

“Well, I’m gonna _kill ‘im,_ duh.”

And then the boy is gone, scampering off over the piles of garbage and rot in the streets.

Wanda looks at Pietro. Pietro looks at Wanda.

“...We couldn’t,” she says.

“Stark is a fully grown man,” Pietro agrees.

“But _if_ we could,” Wanda says quickly. “–If.”

“Yes,” Pietro says, and his face becomes contemplative. “If.”

They don’t dwell on it too long. They are hungry, after all, and thoughts of revenge are quickly eclipsed by the stronger, more prominent need to eat.

At first, they try begging, but quickly figure out that there are too many orphans in Sokovia, and too little food to go around.

So then they try dumpster diving, which is slightly more successful. They are about the same size, so they can both wiggle behind trash bins and dig through foul-smelling black bags.

And then, one day, Wanda limps back into their alleyway, and her brother is sitting on the ground, hunched around a bundle. He holds it like it’s something precious. For a split second, Wanda fears that he’s found a baby. But then he looks up and meets her eyes.

Silently, he holds out his bundle, and Wanda’s mouth falls open.

There, clutched in her brother’s bony hand, is a loaf of bread.

“Bread,” Pietro says unnecessarily, and Wanda snatches up her half.

She doesn’t need to ask where he got it. It’s probably better that she doesn’t know.

“You’re _welcome,”_ Pietro says through a mouthful, but Wanda is too enamored with the idea of being fed to reply.

That first bite, crammed into her mouth and full of sawdust, is still the best thing she’s ever tasted.

* * *

They make do. Somehow.

They survive.

They are ten. And then eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.

Wanda is tired.

* * *

Sometimes, as she lurks in back alleyways and scrapes food out of trash bags, Wanda sees other kids going to and from school. She and Pietro promise each other that one day, they’ll do that, too.

One blisteringly hot afternoon, they sprawl out on the dirty cement, watching the schoolkids rush by, studiously avoiding looking at Wanda and her brother.

“A real school,” Pietro says dreamily. “Remember when we used to go?” 

Wanda groans. “Please tell me you’re not romanticizing _school,_ of all things.”

“We’re going back there one day,” he says determinedly, and he looked so excited that she couldn’t help but indulge him.

“Okay, Pietro.”

“Life’s going to be normal again.”

“I know,” Wanda lies. “You’re right.”

He scowls at her. 

“When we go back to school, I’m going to be a football star,” he says. “And I’ll have all the girls on my arms.” He leers at her, and she gags.

“Don’t make me think about that, brother.”

“Allllll the girls,” he says. “The popular girls, the nerdy girls, I’ll even make room for a boy or two–”

Wanda covers her ears. “You’re disgusting!”

He just laughs.

“When we go to school, it’ll be in America,” Wanda finally says, mostly to change the subject, but she smiles a little anyway because school always looked _so much more fun_ in American movies, and he laughs again.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, little sister.”

 _Little sister?_ Well, now she _has_ to outdo him. 

“Living in America is more likely than you ever getting even _one_ girlfriend,” she says. 

“Yeah, but America’s just extravagant!” he protests, and Wanda howls with laughter. He scowls when he realizes that he’s accidentally agreed with her assessment of his ability to get a girlfriend. “Hey! Look, I can _so_ get a girlfriend! I don’t have to prove anything to you!” He pauses. “But I’d like to go to a school with a cafeteria. One where you don’t even have to pay.”

Wanda props herself up on her elbows. “Prom night,” she says. “With silk dresses and tuxedos.”

A sly smile is beginning to form on her brother’s lips. “Perhaps this school gets to have a swimming pool.”

Wanda sticks her tongue out at him and says “A movie theater!”

They keep going, trying to one-up the other as their fantasy school becomes more and more ridiculous and over-the-top.

“Someday,” Pietro says in a low voice as the evening falls and they have been sitting in comfortable silence for a while, “we’re going to have a house.”

Wanda shifts, looks up at him. “Or an apartment,” she offers.

“Yeah. And jobs.”

“Where would we go?”

“Anywhere. Not here, though. Anywhere but here. Maybe America. England. Scotland.”

Wanda snorts. “Why Scotland?”

He shoves her. “Why _not_ Scotland?”

“What about Stark?” she asks abruptly, and Pietro stops laughing.

“We pay him back,” he says, and his voice has become low and icy. Terrifying. “We kill him.” And then his eyes seek her out, and they are wide and pleading and confused. “Right?”

_Kill him._

Wanda closes her eyes and thinks about the missile, about the two horrific days under the bed, about how she and Pietro would never, ever get to hug their parents again. 

She rolls onto her back to look up at the stars.

“Obviously,” she says, and Pietro smiles.

* * *

Wanda loses her virginity for fifty American dollars in a random alleyway to a bald man that stinks of beer.

Pietro is white-faced and trembling with fear and anger when she gets back. He doesn’t need to ask where she’s been. He knows.

He tells her in a shaking voice to never do it again.

But twelve minutes has never been as long as Pietro thinks it is.

So she does it again the next day.

And the next.

She’s just tired.

* * *

Sex isn’t as intimidating as she thought it would be. It’s just sort of… there. It’s gross, for sure. It smells bad. But it’s not any more intimate than handing over money to the cashier or sharing stolen food with another child raised by the streets. It’s a transaction, that’s all.

Pietro disapproves, she knows he does.

But as long as she doesn’t get pregnant, why should he care? He’s her brother, not her parent. Plus, she’s making money. And they’re desperate.

Still, she knows that it’s at least part of the reason he signs their lives away to Hydra.

* * *

Wanda doesn’t remember too much about the first few days under Hydra’s thumb, but she knows that they experimented on her, first.

Later, Pietro tells her that they chose her first because at the end of the day, he was still an able-bodied male teenager, and if something went wrong, he was the better choice for a survivor.

_“They wanted to keep all their options open,” he said, weeks later, speaking softly into the grate separating their two cells._

_“They wanted to recruit you?” Wanda asked. “You would make a terrible foot soldier. You’re too stubborn.”_

_“Ha, ha,” he said. “But no. I think that they would have given me their super soldier formula.”_

_Wanda blinked. “Like Captain America? Would they brainwash you, if I had died?”_

_“I guess so,” he said, and shuddered. “I would have fought them if it had come to that, Wanda, I swear it. I would have killed them all if they killed you. But it all worked out, didn’t it?”_

_Wanda cupped a ball of deadly red light in her hands and smiled. “I guess it did.”_

But that is later.

Right now, Wanda is strapped to a table and sobbing in pain and terror as they prick her again and again with needles and injections and she can feel it racing through her bloodstream, can feel it twisting her into something she’s not, can feel it growing, changing, warping–

Tired. She’s just so tired.

They toss her back into her cell unceremoniously. She can hear Pietro calling her name. She can’t bring herself to care.

Wanda drifts in and out of consciousness. Pietro is still in the other cell begging her to speak to him, but she can barely move.

She could have lain there for hours, or days, or weeks. She has no way of knowing that time is passing at all, save for Pietro’s voice. At some point, he stops saying her name and starts screaming for help.

Help did not come.

But finally, Wanda manages to focus. Finally, she is able to twitch her fingers… and they _spark._

Oh. Well.

That’s interesting.

In the beginning, it doesn’t even occur to her that she might be able to _hurt people_ with her new powers. Her first night fully conscious, when she’s still sore all over but mostly okay, and Pietro is sitting as close to her as he can get, his eyes wide and watchful, she just lies on the floor and draws in the air.

At first, it’s just simple lines and circles. They are shaky and dim and barely-there, but they’re _there._

She figures out twenty minutes later that she can create light, and cup it in her hand.

She can feel it, a tiny ball of sunshine in her palm.

It’s wonderful.

Once she can make better drawings– cubes and spheres and blobs of shimmering light– she crawls over to the grate, still wincing from the pain that shoots from every bit of skin that touches the hard ground.

“Look what I can do,” she whispers to Pietro, and crafts her designs in the air for him.

His awed face, bathed in red light, gives her enough energy to keep the patterns glowing for hours into the night.

* * *

So Pietro can run fast now. Big deal. Wanda’s superpowers are _way_ cooler than _that._

Besides, by the time Pietro gets his powers, she’s far beyond doodling in the air.

(But… it _is_ sort of cool how he can be in front of her one second and then across his cell the next.)

Moving on. 

They gave her a cube the other day, and after some trial and error, Wanda managed to _pick it up._ From _across the room._

Which is _so cool._

They gave her more cubes, to practice with, she assumes. She takes them without complaint and returns to her cell, where she twirls the blocks in the air and focuses.

They slam into each other and shatter _instantly_.

For a second, Wanda just stares at the remains of the cubes on the floor.

And then exhilaration floods through her.

With her magic and her brother’s speed, _there is nothing that can stop them now._

“We have a chance,” she whispers to Pietro that night, and he shifts. 

He vibrates in his sleep now, she’s noticed, and he wakes up exhausted. But he still props himself up and blinks at her wearily.

“Hmm?”

“Tony Stark,” she whispers, and her brother’s eyes sharpen. He perks up.

“What about him?”

Wanda carefully reaches out and a red tendril of light tugs at his hair. His eyes go wide, and she smiles.

“You mean–?”

“We can take him out,” she says, and he _beams._

* * *

The first time they make her kill someone, she doesn’t sleep for days.

She didn’t know the man’s name, nor what his crime was, but years later, his face is still the first thing she sees when she closes her eyes.

She’s so tired.

* * *

Wanda is playing with her powers one day when she realizes what, exactly, she can do with them.

“Hey,” she says to Pietro, “you know how I can sense feelings now?”

“Yes, I do,” he says, “it’s very creepy. Why?”

“Do you think I could read someone’s mind?”

He sits up abruptly. “Heeyyyy,” he says. “Maybe you could.”

Wanda flops against the wall. “Too bad we can’t test it.”

“Why not? Can’t you try it on one of the Hydra goons?”

“What, and risk getting put in a shock collar?” Wanda snorts. “No thanks. It was just a thought.”

“Well, try it on me, then,” Pietro suggests.

Wanda sits up. “What? No.”

“What, are you _afraid,_ oh magical sister of mine?”

“No, I just don’t want to hurt you!”

 _“Wan-daaa,”_ he says, “just try it! It’s okay. You could never hurt me.”

Wanda rolls her eyes, but breathes in deeply in preparation. “All right, fine. Just don’t scream to try to scare me, all right? I don’t want to lobotomize you.”

“Ah, well, there goes my weekend plans.”

Wanda glares at him, and he lifts his hands in surrender.

“Sorry, sorry. Go ahead, I promise I won’t joke until you’re safely out of my head.”

Wanda sighs, but slowly, she reaches out.

Pietro closes his eyes.

_Connection._

* * *

Pietro is getting annoying. He insists on finding a catchphrase.

 _“I am speed,”_ he proclaims one night, as they are waiting for their boss to arrive and give them a target.

“That’s stupid,” Wanda replies. “Plus, you stole that from a movie.”

“So?” he says. “It was a good one!”

“Was not.”

“Was too!”

Wanda blows a raspberry at him, and he laughs.

The first time they fight together, in a real battle, is nothing short of exhilarating. They work in tandem, each knowing instinctively where the other will be, knowing how to dodge and duck the enemy and never, ever get hit with friendly fire, knowing that if one falls, the other will catch them.

Mostly, they train together, figuring out how to use their powers, figuring out what lines to cross and which ones not to, figuring out each other and themselves.

One day, Wanda arrives at the training area earlier than her brother, and so she sits down to wait.

And she thinks.

They joined Hydra mainly to get a job, to move on in the world, to stop stealing for food. But now, Hydra has given them a gift that they can’t ignore. It’s given them the ability to kill Tony Stark.

But Hydra isn’t exactly a _good_ organization– even Wanda knows that– so she and her brother have to stay on guard more or less all the time. The symbols hang over their heads at all times.

Sometimes, she wonders what her parents would think.

Sometimes, Pietro wakes up screaming.

Sometimes, they are both beaten black-and-blue from the training and the fighting and the testing.

(Is it worth it?)

Wanda shivers. 

And then there is a loud _woosh,_ and Pietro is _right behind her._

Wanda shrieks in surprise and bats at her brother, who dodges easily.

He grins at her. “You didn't see that coming?”

 _“No,”_ Wanda says flatly. “Because you’re _too fast.”_

“Ah, you’re just jealous, Wanda!”

“I am not!” 

“You know,” Pietro says, stroking the four hairs on his chin that he pretended was a beard, “I think I like that one. _Didn’t see that coming._ Yeah.”

“What?” Wanda splutters. “Are you kidding? That’s the worst one yet. It doesn’t make any sense. Come on, you’re not invisible, you’re just going fast!”

He just laughs. “I like it, sister. I’m keeping it.”

Wanda sticks out her tongue, and he only laughs harder.

She smiles to herself, and leans on his arm, and basks in the peace.

* * *

Two days later, they meet Ultron, and everything falls apart.

* * *

Ultron is getting to be a problem.

But they can’t just _leave._ Not when they’re so close.

And now, finally, finally, _finally,_ they have a chance to take out Tony Stark. They have a chance to kill the man who killed their parents. 

But then…

Then they realize what’s really been going on.

Ultron has been playing with them.

He’s going to destroy the world.

There are bigger things at stake than two lost children who can never hug their parents again.

They’re in the battle with Ultron, and they’re even winning. They’re working with the Avengers, working with _Stark,_ and they’re in Sokovia and they’re fighting for their lives.

Pietro finds her in the half-destroyed building.

“Get the people on the boats,” she says, speaking English even though they’re alone (save the killer robots). It's mostly become a habit at this point.

“I am not going to leave you,” he replies.

“I can handle these,” Wanda snaps, and her energy crackles around her. One of Ultron’s robots comes for her, and she shoots it off the rubble. “Come back for me once everyone else is on, not before. You understand?”

He grumbles, but looks up at her with a slight smile. “You know, I’m twelve minutes older than you.”

She laughs. _“Go.”_

Wanda and Pietro had lived and breathed these streets since they were ten years old. And now they were going to save it.

They’ve gotten a lot better at the whole _telepathy_ thing since Hydra’s cells, and she makes use of it now.

 _See you later,_ she thinks at his retreating back, and he offers a _ping_ of distracted reassurance.

She knows he’ll be alright.

Together, nothing can stop them.

* * *

But in the end, they’re _not_ together.

* * *

Pietro dies.

* * *

Wanda feels it.

* * *

She screams.

* * *

Obviously, the worst moment is when it happens.

But the second-worst moment comes thirteen minutes later.

The second-worst moment is when Wanda breaks free of her rage and her grief for a split second.

The second-worst moment is when her eyes land on a cracked watch. It’s still ticking. She can still see the time.

And she realizes, in that second-worst moment, that she is forever and eternally _older_ than Pietro will ever be.

She is sixteen years old, and she is one minute older than her big brother.

She rips Ultron’s heart out.

It might have been more appropriate to tear him in half, instead.

* * *

Afterwards, she goes to New York with the Avengers. It’s not like there's much else she can do. She’s sixteen and has mutant superpowers and her twin is dead. _Pietro_ is dead.

Twin. Dead.

Such a horrific combination of words.

* * *

She goes to high school in America for a little while, under a false name. There is a boy there– Peter– who is fourteen years old, and he is kind to her. He is the only person in this country so far who has been _kind_ to her.

He smiles, and shows her around the school. He jokes, and he laughs. 

And all Wanda can think is that when she was fourteen, she was fighting for her life in back alleyways and scrounging for food in dumpsters.

She prays that Peter will never know the same torment.

So she tries to make friends. She tries to sit with Peter and his friend Whatshisface at lunch and talk about _Star Wars._ Wanda has never been a big fan of blockbusters– she has always preferred older television. She learned how to speak English from classic American sitcoms. Peter has never even heard of _Leave it to Beaver_ or _Bewitched_. She tries, though. She tries.

But in the end, the name _Peter_ is far too close to _Pietro._

In the end, _Star Wars_ is not all that entertaining when she’s lived through real battles, and speculations on the Force bore her when she can do all of that and more. 

In the end, Wanda decides she is of better use on the battlefield than off it. She was not made for the drama of high school, for homework and quizzes and teachers looking down their noses because she didn’t know what a preposition was when Wanda _knew_ that she could snap all of their necks in a heartbeat.

She tells the others that she couldn’t bear going to school and getting an education and living her life when Pietro could not, and it’s even partially true. Going to school, after all the time she and her brother spent dreaming about it… it felt like sacrilege. It felt like betrayal.

How could she go on, as half of a whole? How could she keep going, with such a gaping wound? How could her heart possibly take it, how could it keep beating, how is she still alive without him?

But the simple truth is that in the end, Wanda is tired. Simply– tired.

She leaves after a month.

(A year later, she is sure she hears Peter’s voice on the battlefield… but that’s impossible. Peter Parker is no superhero, and even if he was, this boy named _Spiderman_ is much too athletic to be him.)

She is so tired.

* * *

Wanda isn’t sure when she started to like Vision. Like… _like_ -like him.

In her defense, she has never been in love before, which is partially why she doesn’t even realize it at first. 

When she _does_ realise it, she doesn’t know how to bring it up. Natasha Romanoff is probably the person she’s closest to on the team– plus, she’s pretty much the only other woman there. Can she ask Nat what it’s supposed to feel like? Does Wanda even _want_ to ask Nat? Would she just get laughed at?

…Come to think of it, does Nat even feel romantic love? She knows Nat feels platonic love. She knows Nat is not dating anyone on the team. She knows Nat boos at sex scenes in movies because they’re unrealistic.

Then again, she also boos at spy movies. Maybe Wanda is reading too much into this.

Still, Vision is… 

Well. He’s _Vision._

He’s fastidious, and serious, and smart. He doesn’t joke around too much, but when he smiles, she knows it’s real. He rarely smiles for anyone but her.

She loves him for that.

At first, they just train together. They’re really the only ones strong enough to do it. She can withstand his Infinity Stone, and he can withstand her own powers. Plus, it’s sort of fun.

Then they start hanging out together, outside of training. She eats cereal right out of the box and he pretends not to notice, and if they get just a _little_ too close to be _just friends,_ well, that’s not really anyone else’s business, is it?

“Can you speak Sokovian?” she asks idly one day, and Vision blinks at her.

“I’m an artificial intelligence,” he says, almost scornfully. “I speak _every_ language.” He pauses, and then his eyes widen. His voice softens. “Would you like me to…?”

Wanda hesitates a moment. She does. She wants to hear the familiar accent, the warm tones, the old language that she loved so dearly.

But she still hesitates.

For so long, Sokovian belonged only to her and Pietro. They used English for everything else. Sokovian, though, was _theirs._ It’s the language of an entire people, but for Wanda, it belonged to them and them alone.

But there is no more _them._ There is no more _theirs._ There is no more _us,_ or _we,_ or _ours,_ and there never will be again.

There is only Wanda. Nobody else.

Just Wanda.

Alone.

 _“Wanna come sightsee in Times Square with me?”_ she asks in Sokovian, and Vision smiles.

_“I’d love to.”_

* * *

In hindsight, they probably should have told someone where they were going, but Wanda doesn’t even think of it. She is seventeen years old and has lived on her own since she was a child. Plus, she has Vision with her, albeit disguised as a human.

None of those excuses work when they arrive back at the Tower at ten at night, and the adults are all there, fuming.

Whoops.

* * *

As punishment, Wanda is ordered to stay in the Tower and learn self-defense from Nat, which, all in all, isn’t much of a punishment.

The idea of training with Nat is… exciting. It takes her mind off of things. It’s a way that Wanda can finally be helpful, beyond her powers. Besides, what if she lost her powers one day? Learning self defense isn’t a bad idea.

But as it turns out, she isn’t _just_ learning how to fight.

Wanda walks into the training room one morning and blinks in surprise to see Nat sitting at a table, instead of the usual obstacle course where Wanda got to play Nat’s Punching Bag for three or so hours.

Slowly, she slides into a seat. “What’s going on?”

“You need to get rid of your accent,” Nat says without preamble, and Wanda stares.

“Why?”

“Makes you stand out,” Nat says briskly. “You need to practice an American one.”

“Oh.” Wanda fiddles with the hem of her shirt, wishing she had something else to occupy her hands with. “How do I do that?”

Nat smiles a little. “Immerse yourself. Surround yourself with Americans.”

Wanda frowns. “That’s what I’ve been doing.”

“Exactly.” Nat leans forwards, and her smile gets ever so slightly wider. “So go hang out with Vision for the day or something. If Tony or Steve ask, it’s for _accent practice.”_ She winks.

Wanda blinks at her. “But Vision’s accent is British.”

“That’s not my problem.” Nat says. She stands and starts to swagger out. “Use a condom, you crazy kids!” she calls over her shoulder, and Wanda can feel her face burning.

But she smiles anyway.

 _Maybe,_ Wanda thinks, _maybe I really can belong here. Maybe this really could be a new start._

_Maybe one day, I’ll stop looking over my shoulder for a brother who isn’t there anymore._

_Maybe I can be happy again._

* * *

And then the Accords happen.

And Wanda knows, then.

She will never be truly happy again.

That hope died with Pietro.

* * *

Germany is… well, it’s Germany.

They do what they came to do.

It doesn’t end well.

Stark’s men grab her, manhandle her, shove her into a cage, knock her out.

Wanda lets them.

She’s too tired to fight.

* * *

Wanda wakes up in a cell, wearing a shock collar.

Immediately, she knows what’s happened.

Stark has taken her prisoner. Stark has collared her like a dog. 

Stark, Stark, Stark. It all came down to Stark, didn’t it?

Surprisingly, she doesn’t feel anger towards him. If anything, she feels… numb.

Oh.

_Oh._

_They drugged me,_ she thinks, and can’t find herself caring.

She just lies in her cell, day in and day out, and it feels very familiar, only this time she can’t even draw in the air or talk to her brother to keep herself entertained.

Thinking of her brother didn’t hurt, when she was like this.

Wanda knew objectively that that should scare her.

But it doesn’t. Not really.

She just lies there in her cell, getting shocked every so often, and waits for something to happen.

Sometimes, she hears screaming. She’s not sure who’s doing that, but she sort of wishes they would just shut up.

Wanda has no idea how much time has passed, or even if time is passing at all.

Her throat hurts.

(Was _she_ the one screaming?)

She’s just tired.

She doesn’t care.

She’s so tired she’s so tired she’s so tired she just wants to feel something she just wants to feel anything oh God please anything anything at all anything anything _anything–_

Wanda makes a grab for the bars.

Pain erupts from her neck.

_“There she is!”_

White-hot pain lances through her body.

_“Wanda! Wanda!”_

Every nerve is ablaze.

_“Get it off! Get it off now!”_

She can hear her mother’s sharp-but-loving tones. She can hear her father’s warm voice.

_“Stay with us, Wanda, stay with us!”_

She can hear Pietro’s laughter.

* * *

The day after they arrive at Wakanda, Wanda wakes up sobbing for her brother.

She can hear Nat making concerned noises outside the door, and leaps out of bed before she realizes what’s going on.

Where is she?

Automatically, she sends a message to Pietro– _Where are we?_ – and the sharp pain in her chest at the emptiness there is crippling.

Nat is still outside.

Wanda clears her throat, and pitches her voice just loud enough to be heard. “Where…?”

“Wakanda,” Nat answers. “You okay, Wanda?”

“Yes,” Wanda lies.

She can hear Nat shuffling and knows she doesn’t believe that for a second.

“Your neck okay?” Nat asks.

“Yes,” Wanda says, and nods, feeling the stinging pain intensify with the movement. She winces in pain. Whoops. “I’ll be out soon,” she adds, and finally, she hears Nat sigh in defeat.

“All right,” Nat says, and her footsteps echo down the hall.

Wanda ducks into the adjoining bathroom.

She stares at her reflection. She is haggard. Thin. There is a red ring of raw flesh around her neck from where the collar dug into her skin.

What would her parents think of her? What would _Pietro_ think of her?

Her parents could never have conceived of the direction her life had gone in. Neither they nor Pietro would ever have wanted this for her.

Wanda is sure none of them could have ever imagined her living in a place like Wakanda. She’s heard of it, with its incredible technology and nigh-utopian society, but none of them had. They had died before– 

Well.

They could never have imagined Wakanda. They could never have imagined Vision. They could never have imagined Wanda fighting and maiming and killing.

It’s too much. She’s so goddamn tired, it leaks into her bones and permeates her blood, infecting her very soul. She’s so tired. She’s been tired since she was ten years old.

So she decides to go. To take Vision and run. Be happy. Be free. Live out the life she and Pietro imagined they would, so long ago.

Wanda promises Nat that she will check in. She promises to stay on the radar.

And then she leaves.

* * *

Vision doesn’t like sex. He says it’s uncomfortable and exhausting, but mostly, it’s clear that he _just plain doesn’t want to._

That’s nearly inconceivable to Wanda, who has not been a virgin since she was thirteen-maybe-fourteen, but she leaves him alone. She doesn’t push.

They do other things, instead. They kiss, and cuddle, and that’s about it.

(It’s an unexpected relief. She hadn’t realized how much she still dreaded the notion of that type of intimacy.)

Of course, he has to leave at the end of each night.

It’s very _Romeo and Juliet,_ and she says so to him.

“I would hope neither of us die any time soon,” he murmurs back.

Wanda let out a strangled laugh. “In this line of work?” she says. “It’s a miracle that neither of us haven’t died already. Lucky us.”

He smiles. “We’ll just have to keep getting lucky, then.”

* * *

And then Thanos comes.

* * *

Vision is gone.

* * *

And so is she.

* * *

“Wanda?”

Wanda’s eyes snap open. _“Vision!”_

She jumps up, and sways, nearly falling. A pair of hands steadies her.

“Easy, little sister,” the voice says, and… _little sister._

Little sister. 

That accent. 

Wanda jerks her head up and stares.

And there he is.

Pietro.

Her brother.

Wanda shrieks, and launches herself at him in a giant hug, knocking them both to the ground in her sheer elation.

He looks the same way he did on the day they parted, in his blue shirt and black pants and bleached-blond hair.

“I can’t believe it,” she whispers, cupping his cheeks in her hands.

“What?” he says. “You didn’t see that coming?”

She laughs through her tears and shoves him, and he lets her, smiling wide.

Wanda stands, and looks around.

They are in the kitchen of their old home, in Sokovia.

“You’ve gotten big, little sister,” Pietro teases, but his eyes are sad. “I’m sorry I’ve missed it.” He grips Wanda’s hand tightly and helps her up as Wanda looks around.

Everything looks exactly the way she remembers it. The stained cabinets, the lumpy bed, the wooden table– everything down to the grit on the floor and the plastic-covered window fluttering in the wind is exactly the same.

She couldn’t _believe_ it.

...She _couldn’t_ believe it.

“I’m dead,” she says. “Aren’t I?”

“Yes,” her beloved brother answers. “So am I. This shouldn’t be news to you, little sister.”

Dead.

How strange.

She didn’t feel dead.

“Pietro… is this really happening?” she asks, wishing her voice didn’t tremble quite so much.

Pietro smiles down at her, and now she can see that his cheeks are wet with tears. He opens his mouth to reply, and then there is a roaring noise, like a vacuum had been switched on and hooked to an amplifier.

 _Airplanes,_ Wanda thinks dimly. There is something important about the sound of airplanes, about the terrifyingly familiar whistling noise that accompanies it, but then she is distracted by something infinitely more horrifying.

Pietro is bleeding.

Stains of red are blooming on her brother’s shirt. He lifts his hands, and they start to dissolve into gray dust, slowly at first, but then the gray races up his arms, spreads to his legs, going faster and faster and faster–

Her brother crumples to his knees. He looks up at her, and his eyes look the same way they did back in the cells in Hydra.

His eyes are wide, and blue, and _young,_ and it reminds her of when all she could do was make pretty designs in a jail cell, when they still had a future together, when they still had a chance to live, when she was still _happy._

It was so long ago, now.

Another lifetime.

She’s so very tired.

Pietro looks up at her, and mouths the words _I love you,_ and it’s just like Vision did. 

And then he crumbles, the dust spreading to his neck and his cheeks and his _skull–_

“Pietro!” Wanda yells, finally moving, and tries to grab his temples, tries to _keep him here with her,_ but she’s too late.

Her hands pass straight through him, and then he’s gone.

Her brother is gone.

Again.

There is a loud _crash!_ , and the missile with the name _STARK_ emblazoned on it hits the table.

Light and dust and blood pour into the room, and Wanda screams.

* * *

She wakes up.

She wakes up, and Vision is still gone.

And now, so is Nat.

Pietro’s voice is fading. She hardly remembers what he sounded like when he laughed anymore.

* * *

Wanda is tired.

* * *

She’s always tired.

* * *

When she finally snaps, it’s not with a bang, but with a whimper.

**Author's Note:**

> You guys I tried SO HARD to put [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zBZqBUHbWE0%5D) scene into the fic but ultimately couldn't fit it :(
> 
> So what did you think?


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